


Lending a Hand

by mixermiz907



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, GO Holiday Swap 2019, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixermiz907/pseuds/mixermiz907
Summary: This work was created as part of the Good Omens Holiday Swap and specially created for Mirach, I hope you all enjoy!During World War II, the worst of the many German blitzes set the city of London on fire. Citizens were escorted to the Underground, including those who weren't exactly human. The whole event has the two supernatural beings reminded of the last great fire of London and of what is to come.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 56
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Hurt Aziraphale





	Lending a Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy the fic, it was a lot of fun to write!  
> And thanks a ton to Pearl09 for betaing for me!

Night had just fallen on the twenty-ninth of December 1940. The Germans had been bombing the United Kingdom for many months at this point and they had begun another raid; this time, however, it was in the city of London. Aziraphale was used to the regulations that took place during an air raid; should he be caught outside of his home, the bookshop rather, he and any other civilians would be escorted into the Underground Station. They would be forced to remain there until the bombing had ceased outside.

Aziraphale had only just finished dinner with Madam Peggy from the candle shop down the road; he had already gotten her home and bid her goodnight as the bombs began to go off in the streets within the city of London.

He could see officers ushering people into the nearest tunnels to the Underground from a block away, he was crammed between people like sardines ready to burst out of their canister. As he got within the Underground he could see people of all varying ages and social statuses. 

In the sea of beige and grey’s faintly illuminated by the overhead lights, a singular individual stood out and caught Aziraphale’s eye. A man with striking red hair, sporting a black fedora which sat well above the rest of the crowd began to saunter down the stairwell rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the demon.

Crowley forces himself to blink, still rubbing at his eyes, “Aziraphale,” he mumbled, nodding curtly at the angel whilst tipping his hat. 

“Is that a way to treat an old fr-” Aziraphale started, cutting himself off, “acquaintance, I mean.” He coughed.

“Give me a moment, Ang. Those bombs were the _worst_ wake-up call,” Crowley closed his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.

“How long were you asleep-?”

“This time… Erm, dunno, just shy of eight decades? Maybe?” he yawned.

The pair moved toward the parked train and found a bench for them to sit on. Crowley removed his fedora and placed it in his lap and Aziraphale removed his own beige hat to match.

“So you just woke up?” Aziraphale pressed.

“Mhmm,” Crowley mumbled, pressing his elongated fingers to his temples.

“So you weren’t able to reconsider…?”

“The water of holiness? No, Ang, my opinion on the matter has _not_ changed,” he spat, folding his arms across his chest in a huff.

The pair was silent within the train as more people began to crowd the space, but no one seemed to notice the two figures on the bench. It was as if neither one was there. The silent air was interrupted by the thundering and clanging of the bombs falling upon the city of London. The children nestled into their mothers for comfort and reassurance and Aziraphale nestled himself into Crowley, knowing no one would pay the men no mind.

“Do you remember the last time we were in London together like this?” he looked up at Crowley, rubbing his own right hand, which was pale except for the outer palm and pinky, which were an angry shade of red with slivers of gold embedded into the hand. It was as if it had felt hellfire’s embrace and all that was left was a hallowing reminder of what once was.

“I remember,” Crowley croaked, pushing his shades up the bridge of his nose.

Of course, Crowley remembered the whole sordid affair. It was a burden he’d carry for the rest of his existence. 

\---

Crowley had started planning the event for many years before he was able to enact his plans. He had missed the first chance a millennium before. It was the autumn of 1666, and Hell was afoot. Humans were always superstitious of anything pertaining to witchcraft and demonology. Humans always associated 666 with demons and more specifically Satan, and Crowley was going to use this knowledge to his advantage. It was also a really bad drought year, which Crowley did not know.

He had planned to start a fire within the city of London, cause a local baker’s wife to become unfaithful, in search of a life with more luxury since the bakery would go up in smoke and down in billowing flames. Secure a soul for the lord Satan and all that typical nonsense of the times.

Crowley had let loose just a small spark of hellfire that evening at 7:06, as close to the Satanic number as he could muster.

The fire caught quickly and consumed the bakery as the demon exited the building; he had meant for that to be the end of the fire, however, the fire raged on for what seemed like an eternity and Crowley could only watch.

Once hellfire has been released into the world, there was little anyone could do to stop it. The inferno crept along the streets, consuming everything in its path and covering most of the city of London. The city was almost nothing but shades of scarlet, oranges, yellows, and ash. Crowley watched from a distance for almost a day when his silent musings were interrupted.

“Crowley? What in blazes have you done?” The demon was approached by a familiar voice, one that belonged to Aziraphale

“Started a bit of a fire-” he rubbed his clean-shaven chin, musing the circumstances that brought him there.

“Clearly, that much is more than obvious!” Aziraphale put his hands on his hips. “We have to help these people!”

“Well, yes. I didn’t mean for it to get this far.” Crowley forced himself to blink as he gestured toward the city in flames.

Aziraphale gave the demon a disapproving look before he took off towards the city.

\---

Aziraphale’s day started out wonderfully- he was in Stratford-Upon-Avon visiting the church where his dear and very dead friend William Shakespeare had been buried fifty years before. It was rumored that when he died, he had been claimed by Hell, as did many playwrights, authors, and composers of that time. Had he been in Heaven, Aziraphale could’ve just popped up into the head office and asked for Gabriel to let him converse with his soul. However that was obviously impossible with William being claimed by Hell, so conversing with the grave, or the floor rather, was the only option Aziraphale had.

The ride back toward London was also quite pleasant; he had stopped at a bakery midway between Stratford and London and had a delectable Apple Tansy. The sun had just begun to set- or so he thought when he arrived in London. The sky was still quite bright in the direction of the city, only-

It wasn’t the sky alight, it was the city itself.

\---

Aziraphale had no idea that the fire was of Satanic origin, however, he was still more than eager to help anyone still within the city.

The air was silent, save for the crackling and roaring of the seven-meter flames. Aziraphale ran through the streets feeling out-of-sorts, unable to kick up the pace. Everything about this city fire felt like the complete opposite of pleasant.

The flames were hotter than any fire Aziraphale had created himself. He’d conjured fires before, in his fireplace for important documents he had to destroy. He couldn’t fathom why this fire should be so different-

Aziraphale’s thoughts were cut off by the sound of a scream, piercing the acrid air.

Running toward the noise he spotted a child. A boy of about six years of age, sitting on the second story windowsill just beyond Aziraphale’s reach. The child struggled to get out of the building. Aziraphale instinctively reached out to him to help him down from the flat.

Aziraphale gestured for the child to jump. The child scooted back into the flat, wary of the new man before him.

“I can help you!” Aziraphale called out, trying to reassure the child, “you just have to jump. I’ll catch you!”

The boy swallowed and ran his hand through his blonde curls, eye darting between the main interior of the flat and the sill, the boy’s only exit. A moment later he jumped, eyes squeezed shut and his small body soaring through the air.

Aziraphale leaned forward to break the child’s fall, successfully catching him with only minimal difficulty. He set the child onto his left hip and began to run towards the docks.

He finally got the child away from the building when the pain hit him like a ton of bricks.

Aziraphale’s right arm and coat were on fire.

\---

Crowley heard the angel’s high pitched cry reverberate through the air. It hit him like a slap in the face. He had to move now, and fast. 

Being as the hellfire was of his own design, he was at his most powerful. It was as if Satan himself imbued him with the strength and speed needed to dash toward his angel.

Even with the enhanced speed, he felt as if time was moving slower than it normally should. Everything looked the same within the city. Shells of building and tantalizing flames that would make the Burning of Alexandria jealous.

When he finally arrived, his jaw dropped lower than it would in his demonic form.

Aziraphale was on fire, with a small child beside him.

“Crowley dear, could you get this boy to his family?” Aziraphale inquired, trying to remain calm, even though the angel was anything _but_ calm.

“Of-of coursssssse-” is what Crowley replied, waving the quivering child toward him.

Contrary to what he actually said, what he really wanted to say was, ‘you’re on _fucking_ fire!’

Aziraphale smiled at the boy and in a matter of moments, Crowley began walking off with the child.

“Will he be okay?” the child looked at Crowley, his eyes full of tears.

“Aye, he’ll be fine; let’s get you to your mother and father.”

“My mother,” he corrected, “my father died of the plague the past winter.”

“Ahh, I see.” He pushed his darkened spectacles up his nose, “well let’s get you back to your mother,” he continued as he scooped up the child and ran faster toward the docks. 

“Oh thank all that is holy!” a woman cried out as she ran towards them, holding her skirt in her hands as she ran.

“Mother!” the boy cried as Crowley put him down. 

The woman picked up her child, tears streaming down her cheeks, “Oh, how can I ever repay you?” she looked up at Crowley.

His eyes darted toward the raging fire behind him, “don’t bother,” he spat as he ran toward the burning city, back toward Aziraphale.

No use repaying the demon that made the chaos in the first place. 

\--- 

Aziraphale waited for Crowley’s return while frantically trying to extinguish himself. His right hand had gone numb from shock; it was as if the hand was absent from the situation at hand. His golden ring glowing brightly underneath the flickering flames was the main reminder that it was still his hand. It was almost a beautiful sight. 

Much like his day had been before he tried to clean up Crowley’s mess, the angel could still taste his apple tansy underneath the taste of fear in his throat. He tried to cling to happy thoughts during this time of panic.

Time ticked onward and Crowley wasn’t back yet.

\--- 

Crowley willed himself to move as fast he could make his corporeal form go without losing his shape and becoming a snake; that was the _last_ thing the demon needed at this point.

Minutes later he finally arrived where he had left Aziraphale and was at his side in an instant, trying to extinguish the angel. The fire seemed to bend away from Crowley’s touch. This gave him an idea; a way to extinguish the angel before he was destroyed by the hellfire.

“Angel, let me help you,” Crowley instructed.

The demon removed the angel’s tailcoat and carefully placed it beside him. Coats could be replaced or mended by miracles, an angel destroyed by hellfire cannot. He took Aziraphale’s right hand. It was still very much on fire.

“It hurts,” Aziraphale whimpered, his voice catching in his throat as feeling returned into the hand as pain.

“I know, I know,” he soothed. “Let me help,” he repeated softly, his voice muted by the roaring flames behind them.

Crowley was like ice in contrast to the fire, which cradled around the demon but didn't exactly ever touch him. Taking both of his hands and wrapping them around Aziraphale’s burning hand, he furrowed his eyebrows under his shades and breathed in, causing the fire to dissipate from the angel’s arm and returning the fire to its maker, Crowley himself. 

“I-” Aziraphale started, “how am I-?”

“We’re not done,” Crowley pointed out, gesturing to the hand, or what was left of Aziraphale’s hand. It barely resembled a human hand, let alone one belonging to an angel. The once pale skin was varying shades of pink and red, the angriest shades of scarlet gathered at the pinky, where his golden ring had become molten metal threatening to be imbued with the skin for as long as Aziraphale remained in his current body.

Crowley considered discorporating the angel for a brief moment before deciding against it. He didn’t want to risk his angel losing his body permanently for a what-if scenario. Especially for an ailment as serious as this.

Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s burned hand, trying to alleviate the pain. Every stroke was like ice to the wound, soothing it momentarily.

“We’ll make this right, Ang,” Crowley reassured him. “For now, let’s get out out of this hellfire storm.”

“Hellfire?” Aziraphale repeated numbly. “Shouldn’t- shouldn’t I be a goner?”

“Perhaps,” Crowley mused, “I’m glad you’re not, though,” he added, clearing his throat.

“Me too,” the angel spoke quietly as he was swept off his feet and carried to the docks, furthest away from human ears.

“I can’t promise your hand will ever be the same way again,” he whispered as he set the angel down, kissing his hand.

“I’m just glad it-I didn’t get destroyed,” he chuckled, wincing in pain as Crowley stopped to touch the hand and raise it up, looking at it in the moonlight

The ring looked nothing like it had once been back in the Garden; it looked almost as if it was marbled into his flesh. The smell of burned skin and Thames River were all that either being could smell.

Crowley snapped from the ground up and procured pieces of cloth to wrap Aziraphale’s hand in; relieving it of exposure to the outside air, he gently wrapped Aziraphale’s hand and went to embrace him, recoiling at the thought.

“I-” Crowley started.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Aziraphale approached the apprehensive demon, “I understand,” he continued as he hugged the demon himself, watching London burn until it had finally extinguished itself days later.

The pair would go about their daily lives, Crowley regretting the affair for the rest of-.

\---

1940

“Crowley?” Aziraphale nudged the demon, who had begun to doze on the train.

“Hmm..?” he mumbled

“The bombs, they stopped going off. Shall I walk you back to your flat?”

“Sss’might be a good idea,” he smiled sleepily.

“Come on, you,” he helped the demon up and held him upright on his left side.

They walked up the stairs together and walked to distance to Crowley’s flat. The road was cratered where the bombs had landed, but by some _miracle_ both the bookshop and the flat were unscathed.

They got to the flat and Aziraphale helped him upstairs. The flat was still set to the previous era; the stone floors all led to the center room, which had Crowley’s throne and marbled desk. In the room to the right of the entrance was for all intents and purposes, the bedroom. Aziraphale led him into the bedroom and sat him down upon the ebony four-poster bed with a silky black bedspread on top of it. Aziraphale was just about to turn and leave when he felt the cool touch of Crowley’s hand on his burned one.

“Will you stay with me?” the demon pleaded.

“I-,” he hesitated, “well, alright. Just this once you _foul-fiend._ ” He smirked as he too sat on the bed.

\---

Bonus: Epilogue

Modern Day

Armageddon was thwarted and Crowley was sprawled out on the couch in Aziraphale’s restored bookshop, lying in his angel’s lap playing Flappy Bird on his phone. The pair had just finished their first dinner for the rest of their lives.

Aziraphale was reading a book quietly, holding it in his right hand and stroking the demon’s head in his lap with his left. For the first time in three hundred and fifty-three years, his hand was no longer a mess of flesh and metal. His hand was also all one shade, and his ring restored. The Principality insignia was just as bright as it was when he was sent to watch over the Garden of Eden.

Discorporation was the key to the restoration of Aziraphale’s hand, after all. With the destruction of his old body and Adam’s gift of a new body, his ailments had been removed and he was free to whatever he liked for all of their eternity. He also never had to document the damage done to his hand and had to forward it to the head office. How Heaven had never found out or inquired about his burn was beyond him.

After three hundred and fifty-three years, the angel was pain-free and able to live with his demon peacefully; he was also able to do anything he wanted to on his own terms.

“Crowley, my dear?” Aziraphale closed his book, looking at the previously scorched hand.

“Hmm..?” Crowley replied, lowering his phone to look at his angel.

“God may never forgive you, but I do,” he said simply, kissing the demon’s forehead.

Crowley moved his head and their lips met instead, “you’ve already forgiven me,” he smiled, “you’ve let me be yours.”


End file.
